


i’m not wearing my usual lipstick

by demonicxiconic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Makeup, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), No beta we kayak like Tim, Piercings, Prompt: Dressed Up/Down, Season/Series 01, Sexual Tension, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), and tim is very gay about it, bc earrings are sexc, its not very explicit that he’s trans but he is, martin went out and bought a suit like an hour before the party started, the obligatory institute party fic, the smallest hint of plot but really it's just bathroom smoochin, these tags make no sense, this fic is just me simultaneously projecting onto tim and yelling hot martin rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonicxiconic/pseuds/demonicxiconic
Summary: “I tried to put some more of this on, but my hands aren’t, um, very steady right now,” he says to the eyeliner, to his shoes, to everything in the little tiled room but the space occupied by Martin. A space, he notices, that is moving closer to him, close enough that he can hear Martin opening his mouth, closing it again, working it around the forming words in his head.“Can I, uh, help? W-with the eyeliner, I mean.”—a fic for martim week 2021! prompt: dressed up/down
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, vague one sided timsasha
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	i’m not wearing my usual lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> this is a day late but time is relative so maybe everyone else was just early. heed the tags, this one’s pretty horny!  
> title from washing machine heart by mitski.

Tim nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears dress shoes clacking into the bathroom. God, of course  _ now _ is when Jon, or, even worse, Elias, is going to approach him and ask him about follow up on some spooky story by a delusional person vying for attention.

“T-Tim? You alright?”

That’s certainly not either of his bosses.

He turns towards the voice, plastering his usual rakish grin across his face. He’s shocked to find that it doesn’t feel entirely fake.

“Martin, my man! How’s the party going without me? Nothing too-“ he drops his voice to a playful growl- “ _ salacious _ happened in my absence, I hope?”

Martin titters, cheeks gently pink as he rocks back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. 

“I- I wouldn’t know, just got here, really. My, um, bus broke down, so I had to walk a couple blocks.”

Tim winces in sympathy as he takes in Martin’s appearance. He’s a bit rumpled from the rain, though it does nothing to deter the very startling fact that he is  significantly more dressed up than usual, in a neat button-down with a navy blue tie that matches his slacks, and-

“Hold on, are those  _earrings_? ”

Martin grins self-consciously, rubbing at the back of his neck as Tim takes a few steps forward, admiring the little crystal studs. They glint prettily in the light, and, okay, it’s kind of stupid, but he can feel the barest tug in his gut, a suggestion, an idea, as Martin speaks up again.

“I-I got them done the other day, I guess I forgot to tell you, sorry.”

“No, don’t be, ‘s a pleasant surprise.”

Tim’s words are faint as he circles around Martin, and he grins privately when he notices the significantly darker tinge his ears have taken on, the barely-visible way he’s biting the inside of his mouth.

“Ah, mm, anyway, I just- were you doing alright? Before?”

Tim grimaces. He’d thought his...  state ... wasn’t too obvious, but clearly it hadn’t escaped Martin’s eyes.

Right. Play it cool.

“Eh, nothing much, just a stupid comment that... hit wrong.”

It’s the understatement of the century, but in his defense, it really  is  nothing much. 

It _should_ be nothing much.

Martin sighs.

“Tim, I know- I know we’re not, um, the closest? But, I- I’m good at listening. I-I-if you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine too! I just- just want to know you’ll be alright.”

Tim smiles a little at that, a twitch of his lips that just barely reaches his eyes.

“‘S really barely a thing, it’s just-“ He sighs, heavier than stone.

“Y’know Olivia, from Artifact Storage?”

Martin nods. Olivia is a person it’s hard not to know, frankly. Say what you will about her work ethic, but she makes up for it by being so aggressively friendly to every other employee that it’s frightening sometimes.

“Well, she- um, we were joking around, I barely remember the context, but she said something that implied that, uh, me ‘n’ Sash were still, y’know-“

Martin makes a quiet noise of sympathetic distress, wringing his hands a bit. Tim looks down, he just- he cannot  stand pity looks, the ones that say “I so desperately want to comfort you”. To be honest, he’s not too big on the comfort itself either.

“And it- it shouldn’t’ve freaked me out so much, it really- but here we are, so.”

He laughs uncomfortably, and leans against the sink, grabbing at his eye pencil and twirling it between his fingers.

“I tried to put some more of this on, but my hands aren’t, um, very steady right now,” he says to the eyeliner, to his shoes, to everything in the little tiled room but the space occupied by Martin. A space, he notices, that is moving closer to him, close enough that he can hear Martin opening his mouth, closing it again, working it around the forming words in his head.

“Can I, uh, help? W-with the eyeliner, I mean.”

Tim looks up at him then, more out of shock than actually wanting to. There isn’t a hint of joking anywhere on Martin’s features, just that light, nervous flush and a little crease between his eyebrows.

It’s a terrible, terrible idea, but for lack of a better one, Tim nods, just once, and drops the pencil into Martin’s hand.

“Knock yourself out, I guess.”

And Martin  _beams_ brighter than the florescent lightbulbs as he takes off the cap and twirls the eyeliner like a caricature of an artist. Tim has no idea if he knows how to do makeup whatsoever, but he can’t bring himself to do anything that might tamp down that smile.

He certainly can’t bring himself to do anything a couple minutes later, as the small of his back hits the edge of the sink. Martin keeps insisting that he needs to be closer to work well, and only now does the little annoyed twist to his mouth begin to smooth as he goes back over an upper lid with the pencil. His chest is nearly pressed to Tim’s, ringlets of hair inches away from his face, glasses slipping down his nose, and, well, what else can Tim do other than sit back, enjoy the view, and try not to flinch too much when Martin’s fingers slip?

The left eye is finished, and as Martin shifts his focus to the other side it takes everything Tim has in him not to squirm against the firm line of his body. The quiet heat has quickly risen to a rolling want, and now Tim is the one biting nervously at the inside of his mouth. Martin, for his part, is either so completely caught up in the makeup that he doesn’t notice, or is nice enough to not react when Tim’s hips involuntarily jolt forward a centimeter or two.

“I really hope I’m not messing this up.”

It’s the first thing either has said in a while, and Tim laughs, a little breathlessly, though he tries not to let it move his face too much. He couldn’t be, how could this lovely, lovely creature in front of him (slash on top of him) do anything wrong?

“Eh, it’ll just add flair if you do.”

Martin smiles, self-conscious, but Tim sees a bit of the tension in his ( _nice, broad,_ _ muscular  _ _holy **shit**_ ) shoulders bleed away as he carefully outlines the bottom of his eye, with only minimal shaking.

“Sorry, can you, like, raise yourself up a bit? I need to-“

Tim doesn’t even hear what he needs it for, just wordlessly pushes himself up higher, palms braced on the sink, and tries not to shiver when Martin’s thigh inadvertently drags against his dick as he murmurs a thanks and leans back in.

It feels like an hour but probably is only about forty seconds before Martin pipes up with a cheery “all done!” Tim smiles back, wills the gnawing arousal to back off for two seconds, and turns around to inspect the damage.

It isn’t bad, actually. It’s closer to emo than elegant, really, and smudged around the corners of his eyes, but he grins and gives Martin a thumbs up in the mirror anyways, which is returned with a self-conscious smile. His heart is in his throat, in his stomach, in his- ah. That’s still a situation that’s happening. He tries to keep the smile up, let it fade naturally, but the silence still feels more stilted than content. Martin looks down at the floor, lost in thought, and Tim looks at him, in much the same dreamy way. He isn’t  _ drooling _ , per se, but it’s a close enough thing that he should probably still feel embarrassed about how stuck he is on the formalwear.

It’s just a universal thing, okay? Suits are hot, ties are excellent, dress pants and earrings and rolled up sleeves and Martin all make him a bit weak in the knees, and the combination-  _ God _ , he hasn’t thought about bottoming in  _ ages _ , but now the only place he wants to be is pressed up against the crisp white of Martin’s dress shirt as his pretty, solid fingers creep lower and lower and-

“Oh, dammit, I missed a spot.”

“Huh? O-oh, on my eyeliner. Um-“ how to tactfully say this. I could fix it myself, but you’re so sweet and you look really hot and I want you pressed up against me again?

“-well, have at me, I suppose!”

Not exactly how he planned to put it, but it seems to work for Martin, who lets the gentle smile return to his face as he picks up the pencil again, gesturing with his head for Tim to go back to his earlier place. He does so, snapping off a little salute and twirling on the way just for grins, loving the way Martin snorts and shoots him an unimpressed look. And all of a sudden they’re back in the same position, and Tim’s junk has once again decided to make him feel like he’s swallowed a jacuzzi. He wets his lips and silently leans back as Martin reaches behind him, presumably for the eye pencil, which  would  be fine, but now Martin’s leg is pressed between his just right and he just can’t  help but let out the quietest of moans.

Martin absolutely notices this time. And Tim is absolutely fucked.

There’s a beat where nothing happens, where their little chunk of world doesn’t turn like it should, and this is where Tim dies, it’s sandwiched between Martin’s thigh and a sink in a shitty bathroom with cracked tiling that he’s just going to evaporate and leave Martin standing there, confused and holding an eye pencil and-

Martin’s face is back in his field of vision and his thoughts stop like they’ve been hit by a train.

“Th-that dance card of yours still open?”

_What_. Tim knows he’s staring, but honestly,  _ what? _ It had been a half-joke, honestly, something to indicate the vaguest of interests, but having the line thrown back at him is like a not entirely unpleasant punch to the gut.

“I- I mean- if you’re serious-“

Martin’s reply is completely deadpan.

“No, Tim, I was running lines for a comedy I’m going to be in. Yes, of  _ course  _ I am, honestly.”

Tim laughs, short and punched-out. His heart is rabbit-fast in his chest and his palms are beginning to protest at the way he’s resting most of his weight on them, but every sensation feels dulled save for the ghosting of breath against his skin and the ever-present wanting bleeding out into him from the spot where their hips meet. He’s nodding, he thinks, mouth still hanging dumbly open a bit.

“I, yeah, um. Yes, s’ never been more open, frankly, not a single other fella’s queued up-“

Martin is rolling his eyes fondly, and Tim hears the clink of the eyeliner being set down, and oh god there are very warm hands resting on his sides. They look at each other for a moment, and between one blink and the next they’re closer, Martin’s eyes half-lidded and dark and  _ hot _ . He absolutely knows what he’s doing to Tim, and the way he’s lording it over him a bit sends another curl of heat through him.

“Just- Tim.”

“Martin.”

They regard each other again, faux haughty looks on both their faces.

“Would you kiss me, and then, um, maybe we can go from there?”

Tim feels his face split in a frankly ridiculous smile. Martin is just- being so very  _ Martin _ about making out in the bathrooms of their workplace while trying to avoid a party.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

And as Martin leans down to steal even the thought of breath from him, Tim fists his hands in that crisp dress shirt and sends a vehement mental thank you to whoever decided that the dress code for Institute parties should be formal.

**Author's Note:**

> if u liked this, come hang out with me on tumblr @demonicxiconic :)


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